As she stared down at the over hob, watching the omelette carefully, Wednesday heard Harry's footsteps padding down the stairs. A few seconds later, the kitchen door was pushed open and he appeared, bleary eyed and evidently hungover.

"Morning," he rasped, his voice barely there.

Wednesday grinned at his wildly ruffled hair and the fact he only had open eye open as he looked around.

"You're finally awake then?"

His lips were puffy from sleep and he used the back of his hand to rub his eyes, shuffling over to the sink to run a glass of water.

"What time is it?" he asked, apparently too hungover to even look at the clock on the wall a metre away.

"Half 10. I'm making you some food to help, so sit down."

He did as he was told, holding onto the cup and taking sips like his life depended on it as he sat atop one of the kitchen island stools. He groaned, rubbing his face again. "I'm exhausted. And I feel like shit."

"I'm not surprised," Wednesday laughed, turning to him. "You smelt like a brewery when you showed up last night."

"I sort of remember getting into the taxi. And you helping me to bed. But then everything else is just one big blur."

Wednesday nodded, knowing that meant last night's entire conversation had been wiped from his memory. At least, that was until it slowly started to come back to him. She nervously wondered if he'd remember the last thing he said to her. If he would regret it now. Biting her inner cheek, she turned back to the omelette, turning off the hob and sliding it onto a plate.

"So, you don't remember much from last night then?"

She passed it over to him with some cutlery, turning on the kettle ready to make him a coffee too.

"Not really. Though, that could be something to do with the fact my head is actually pounding. I feel like someone opened me up and took a piss on my soul."

She laughed, pouring the hot water into the two mugs.

"You're so dramatic."

He paused eating, looking at her with widened eyes and a dropped jaw, the fork in his hand held mid-air.

"There's not a chance that you are calling me dramatic."

Wednesday curled her lip, her eyebrows pinching together. "And what's that meant to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," he said, popping a piece of omelette in his mouth, as she planted down the coffee in front of him. "Of all the people I know, you are by far the most dramatic person I've ever met in my life."

She pulled a face of incredulity, defensive against his accusation. "Name me a time I've ever been overdramatic."

"Okay," he said, looking to the ceiling and thinking it over, his voice still raspy. "On the last tour, you had a full-on strop because someone got to the last piece of chocolate cake before you."

"I wouldn't call that a s—"

"Two Christmases ago, you lost a game of Cluedo and said you weren't going to play anymore because it was stupid, and we were all cheaters."

"I still stand by that statement."

"Literally last week you stepped onto a snail and spent the next half an hour nearly in tears about how awful of a person you were."

"I felt bad!" she defended, crossing her arms against her chest.

"And every single time we watch a sad film, you lay face down on the floor for about an hour after and say you're 'processing it'." He chewed another piece of omelette, looking back to her. "Like I said, dramatic."

Wednesday stood with an unimpressed face, the warm mug between her hands as she found nothing to retort back.

"Shut up and eat your omelette," she mumbled, taking a sip from her own mug.

He grinned victoriously, knowing he'd proved his point. Shaking her head, she moved around and grabbed the loaf of bread, putting two slices into the toaster.

"What are you doing today?" he asked behind her.

"Boring stuff. I need to go do a food shop, sort my wardrobes out." She waited for the toast to pop up, biting her inner cheek. "I was actually, um...going to look through a few photo albums I found again a few days ago."

The toast popped out and she grabbed both pieces, putting them down on her plate and beginning to butter.

"Was I looking at photos last night?" Harry asked, confusion lacing his words.

"Yeah," Wednesday replied, licking butter from her finger. "The albums are in my bedroom and you found one of them. Started to look through."

Turning with the plate in hand, she took a bite of the toast. Harry pushed his empty plate away, drinking some coffee. "Can I look at them with you today too?"

Wednesday chewed, smiling anxiously. "Haven't you got things to do?"

Grinning, his slightly bloodshot eyes look directly into hers. "Nope. Scheduled today as a day off months ago. So, I'm free as a bird."

She took another bite from the toast. "Well then, I guess that's that. Don't you need to go home though to get changed and stuff?"

Harry looked down to his current outfit that consisted solely of her own clothes.

"Nah, I'll just get showered here and steal more of your clothes," he grinned, admiring the Scooby Doo sweatshirt he was currently donning. "Gotta say, I'm loving this look."

Wednesday rolled her eyes. "Somehow, it looks better on you than it does on me. And those shorts are usually tight on me." She peeked over the table, seeing that they were slightly baggy on him and narrowing her eyes, pushing away any negative thoughts before they could even register.

"That's because you were blessed in the arse department and I was not," he shrugged, eyes widening slightly a second later as he realised what he'd said. Wednesday's eyebrows raised, a surprised smile invading her lips as her cheeks heated up.

"Have you been looking?" she asked, her grin wide as she watched him fidget.

He cleared his throat, standing up and putting his dishes into the sink. "Maybe once or twice. I'm your best friend, but I'm not blind."

Wednesday felt her face get even hotter and she took a sip from her coffee as a way to partially hide her red cheeks. His lips slightly curled to one side as he stood opposite her.

"Go get in the shower already," she said, shaking her head and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

With a smirk, he sauntered out of the kitchen and back upstairs. After quickly washing the pots, Wednesday followed, hearing the shower running from the closed bathroom. Spotting the box full of photo albums and old miscellaneous items in her bedroom, she picked it up and carried it downstairs into the living room.

The sun was bright outside, shining into the room and making everything seem lighter. Having dark navy walls meant that often it could feel small in there, gloomy almost. But with everything highlighted in the honey-coloured stream of light, it felt calm. She put the box onto the coffee table, going to the blinds and opening them up to allow even more light in.

Taking a seat onto the sofa closest to the wall, she pulled the box towards her and dipped her hand in. Pulling out the first book she felt, she found the one labelled 'Old'.

As she opened it to the first page, a baby photo of herself immediately greeted her. She smiled down at it, turning the page to even more. Because she was an only child, her mum had said they'd taken as many pictures as possible of her growing up, because they wouldn't have another chance to do so. And so, that was how there came to be so many photos her as a baby.

She worked her way through them, admiring each page. Ones where she was sat atop a rocking horse, others where her face was covered in food. Just as she found a page full of pictures of her in the bath, laughing at the rubber duck in her hand as she sucked on her thumb, Harry appeared in the doorway.

His hair was wet and laid unstyled across his forehead. Wednesday looked down to his outfit, seeing even more of her clothes. This time, he'd seemingly picked them out for himself. On his bottom half were her grey oversized joggers. On his top half was a vintage England football shirt and as soon as she saw him wearing it, her heart felt like it dropped.

"I see you've raided my wardrobe then," she said with a soft smile, looking up to him.

"I had a little root through," he grinned, proudly looking down. "What do you think?"

She looked at the shirt again, her smile faltering slightly. Looking down to the book, she nodded. "It looks good."

Harry noticed the change in her demeanour, standing up straighter. "What's wrong?"

Wednesday looked back to him, her expression soft as she found the right words to say. "The shirt," she said, nodding her towards the white fabric. "It was dads."

His face dropped as he realised, looking down to it guiltily and already beginning to leave the room. "Shit, I didn't realise. Sorry, I'll go change it—"

"Harry, it's fine," she said quickly, watching as he turned back to her, an unsure expression on his face. "It was just weird seeing it on someone else, that's all. But you can wear it. It deserves to be worn again."

He bit his lip, analysing her face. She sent him an earnest smile, and once he was sure she was okay with it, he nodded and took a seat next to her.

She looked back to the book as Harry leant over. His breath was gentle in her ear and she could smell the faint scent of her strawberry body wash radiating from him.

"Is that baby Wednesday?" he asked, the smile in his voice apparent.

Wednesday breathed out a laugh, looking down at the pictures of her chubby little naked body in the bathtub, a shock of dark brown hair atop her head.

"Yes, stop looking."

She tried to hold the book away, but he leant forward, grabbing it from her easily. He held it in front of him, looking to it with an amused smile.

"You really did look like the Michelin man as a baby you know," he observed, laughing lightly.

She smacked him on the arm, unable to contain her own laughter as she looked down at the photos.

"Yes, I was a chunky baby. Move on to the next page, please!"

He flicked over and they looked through the next few pages in silence, each one of them breathing out laughs as they saw more amusing photos of her. Eventually, they landed on a page full of photos of her and her dad. She smiled sadly, looking at the photos. She couldn't have been older than two, sat on his lap as they both shared an ice cream, their cheeks covered in the melted liquid. Her dad looked so happy, staring down at her in wonder.

She could feel Harry's eyes flicking over to her, gaging how she felt. Her eyes focused on the photos as she remembered what Sade had asked her to do before their next session. Open up to someone. About how she was feeling. Her eyebrows pulled together as she tried to find where to even start, uneasy about the entire thing.

She thought about the possibility of lying at the next session, say she'd done it when she hadn't really. But then, what would the point of it all be? Why even bother returning if she wasn't going to do what was suggested?

Closing her eyes, she released a sigh. Then, ignoring the nerves swirling in her stomach and every defence mechanism in her brain screaming at her to stay silent, she spoke.

"I really miss him."

Harry's head turned towards her, almost surprised at her statement. But he shot her a warm smile, his face comforting. It gave her the willpower she needed to keep talking.

"Sometimes, I have dreams where he's still here. And we will just be hanging out, joking or whatever. Then I wake up and realise. And it feels like he's died all over again."

His eyebrows lowered as he took in her words, pain clouding his face. His fingers hesitated on the page, almost as if he wanted to reach out to touch her, hug her. She looked up, smiling sadly at him.

"When we...when we found out his cancer was terminal, I don't think I let myself acknowledge how it would feel for him to not be here. Not emotionally, anyway. I remember panicking about how mum would cope when he wasn't here, about how I could be there for her when I would be away touring. And I spent so much of my time focusing on that, it left me no time to even imagine what life would be like without him here. Without a dad to ring when I had car problems, or to discuss the Liverpool games with, or just to go for a pint with. I thought I was handling it fine when really, I—I was so far from fine. And I just didn't realise."

She looked to the wall opposite, feeling the gates guarding her secrets begin to crumble. Now she'd begun to talk, she didn't know how to stop. His hand softly crept onto hers, rubbing circles into her skin. The action made her want to cry, his thoughtfulness never ceasing to amaze her.

"I've been on autopilot mode for two years and," she closed her eyes, breathing out tiredly. "I'm exhausted. Completely exhausted."

The feeling of laying her emotions bare for someone to see was so foreign to her, that she felt physically uncomfortable. Like the air around her was thicker. But somewhere within her, she felt lighter. Like a weight had been lifted. She wanted to apologise desperately for opening up, the words 'I'm sorry' on the end of her tongue. But she remembered what Sade had told her. No apologising for showing emotion.

"You know," Harry began next to her, biting his inner cheek. "There are so many things about you I've always admired. Always been in awe of. But I think the biggest thing is how strong you are."

She opened her eyes, her brows pinching together as she looked at him imploringly. He didn't meet her eyes. Instead, he smiled sadly down to the floor as he continued to speak.

"You're so strong Wednesday. The strongest person I know. And the worst part is, you don't realise it."

Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly as she tried to formulate a sentence, taken aback by his statement.

"I'm..." she looked down, shaking her head. "I'm not strong."

Harry looked to her then, moving closer to her, his face serious as he stared into her eyes. His hand was still on hers as he squeezed reassuringly.

"Yes, you are. You think being strong means not letting grief affect you, but you're wrong. Being strong is living every day with grief or pain that is so heavy you feel like you're drowning and still getting out of bed every day. Being strong is hiding your tears behind a yawn or a cough because you don't want to burden others. Being strong is this," he said, gesturing between them. "It's you opening up when you feel ready to. Being strong is however the fuck you choose to handle your grief. Don't for a second think that because you've experienced it differently to others, it makes you less than. Because it doesn't."

Wednesday could feel the lump in her throat and the way her eyes were beginning to gloss up as he continued to stare at her. Months ago, back when they'd filmed the friendship test video in New York, he'd called her strong. And though she'd smiled for the camera, she'd not believed it. And she found it hard to believe then.

How could she see herself as strong when she felt so weak? For as long as she could remember, she'd run from her own emotions. Ran when things got tough. What was strong about that? But the way Harry spoke, like he wanted her to believe what he was saying so intensely, made her wonder if what he was saying was true. That she didn't give herself credit for what she'd gone through.

She looked down, temporarily shielding her face from his view and subsequently her eyes too, that were dangerously close to letting a tear fall. Opening up was one thing; crying was something else she needed to tackle in her own time. Biting her slightly wobbly lip, she swallowed back the lump in her throat.

"I never feel strong," she said, voice shaky. "But I guess feeling and being strong are different things, aren't they?"

Catching Harry's eye from under her lashes, she looked at him uneasily. His fingers curled around hers further as his eyes looked between hers.

"You're strong. Even when you don't feel like you are." He smiled reassuringly at her. "Especially when you don't feel like you are."

Her heart was beating fast as they continued to stare at each other. Shakily, she smiled at him as gratitude filled her.

"How do you do that?" she asked quietly.

"What?"

"Always know what to say to make me feel better."

He breathed out a soft laugh, smiling warmly as he shrugged. "You tend to learn a few things about a person when you spend pretty much every day of the past 15 years with them."

Wednesday smiled warmly, looking down to where their hands were touching. It wasn't an unfamiliar view these days. Her hand in his. It was so gentle, the way his skin connected with hers. She could feel her heartbeat fast in her ear as silence fell between them, feeling his eyes on her.

His gaze was burning into her and she didn't know how to feel about it.

Quickly, she withdrew her hand, leaning forward and grabbing another book from the box as Harry cleared his throat, sitting back.

"Here you go," she said, passing it over to him as she plastered on a smile. "The Take Me Home album. I'm sure there's a page in there entirely dedicated to that time you and Louis covered Liam in whipped cream when he was asleep."

Harry looked down to her outheld hand where the book was grasped and back to her eyes. He looked between them, seemingly trying to search for whatever she was feeling. Finding nothing to say, he smiled gently, taking the book from her hand.

For the rest of the morning, that was all they did. Sat side by side, reminiscing over the life they'd shared.

A life that neither one of them had ever expected.

/